


Strength From Distress

by Mickey_McKeown



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Gen, Morse Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 11:36:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17466824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mickey_McKeown/pseuds/Mickey_McKeown
Summary: Morse is captured and injured by a mad woman.





	Strength From Distress

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Doctor_Whom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Whom/gifts).



> My Whump Exchange 2018 gift, first posted on Tumblr. 
> 
> Title from a quote by Thomas Paine:
> 
> “The real man smiles in trouble, gathers strength from distress, and grows brave by reflection.”

“I’ll never tell you where he is.”

Mrs Flaherty smirked, a cruel twisting of her lips and narrowing of her emotionless eyes. “We’ll see about that.”

Morse looked up at her, trying to maintain a look of defiance, though it was undermined somewhat by the swelling bruises around his eye and cheek. He lay on the cold ground of the cellar, Mrs Flaherty standing over him, and wondered how on earth he would get out of this one. The blows to his head were painful but not disabling; the injuries to his torso, on the other hand, inflicted by an iron poker, were agonising. He struggled to take in air with each grating breath, his broken ribs grinding every time he moved. His head swam and unconsciousness beckoned, though whether the cause was lack of oxygen from his laboured breathing or the injuries to his head was up for debate. 

Mrs Flaherty loomed over him, a kitchen knife having replaced the poker. “You’ll tell me. Now. Or I’ll leave you down here to bleed out like a stuck pig.” She laughed, insanity bubbling over into mirth. “D’you get it? A stuck pig? ‘Cause you’re a copper?” 

Morse followed the glint of the knife with a new wariness. The woman was mad, she had no interest in keeping him alive to find her quarry. Her sadism and need for revenge had consumed her mind, but despite his attempts to remain alert, he could find no energy to speak, to find the words that might save his life. 

She sighed, examining the knife. It was long, a meat knife, and sharpened to a razor’s edge. “Shame.” 

With a speed Morse could not have expected from a sexagenarian, she darted forwards, knife held aloft. Desperation lent him strength and with the last of his energy reserves, he surged forward to grasp her wrists, controlling the descent of the knife. Despite her age, the woman’s life as a farmer had imbued her muscles with wiry vigour and Morse could feel himself losing the battle. His adrenaline and strength waning, he gave one last wild heave, and pushed her away forcing her off balance. She stumbled towards the wall of the cellar, falling hard against the brick with a frenzied scream. Morse, his last-gasp effort having sapped his last supply of strength, fell against her, unable to react in time to save himself. 

He fell upon the knife, its blade biting deep into his side, and he cried out. His breath was stolen by the blinding pain which had overtaken his body. He only vaguely heard the snap of his ribs as they gave way under the pressure of his fall, and the shout from the floor above, Thursday calling his name, the clatter of boots on the wooden stairs, the yell of victory from the officer, Strange’s soothing reassurances. Gasping for air, he tried to lift his head and saw Strange and Thursday hovering over him.

“Sir, Mrs Flaherty...”

Thursday cut him off, sparing his heaving breaths. “She’s dead, Morse. Landed on a scythe, if you’ll believe it. Just focus on yourself, now. Keep breathing.”

Morse tried to smile, but lost the expression in a wracking cough. He tried to draw breath between each cough, but couldn’t, panic setting in as the fit continued. He felt liquid on his lips and the taste of copper filled his throat. Distantly he realised that he was coughing up blood, but darkness was hovering at the edge of his vision and all the oxygen in the room seemed to have evaporated. He locked his eyes with Thursday’s as the darkness closed in, trying to convey both his thanks and an apology with the shared gaze. The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was the Inspector kneeling over him, his expression twisted with fear, and wanted to reassure him but the pull was too strong and he sank into the embrace of unconsciousness.

 

Morse had not expected to wake up, so, when he eventually opened his eyes, he was rather surprised. The uncomfortable bed and antiseptic smell of the hospital was certainly an improvement on the dark cellar, and the sight of Inspector Thursday sitting by his bedside caused a warm rush of emotion to wash over him. 

“Sir?” His voice was dry and rusty, but succeeded in attracting the attention of the Inspector, who leaned forward with a wide smile. 

“It’s good to see you awake, Morse.” He handed his constable a glass of water, and Morse took it eagerly with a shaking hand. “You gave us quite a scare.” Morse’s face conveyed his confusion, so Thursday continued. “You managed to get yourself stabbed, on top of that beating she gave you. Didn’t do too much damage, fortunately, but you punctured a lung when you fell. Scared the life out of me when you started coughing blood everywhere...” He trailed off and forced a smile. “Still, you’re here and awake now, so no harm done, eh?”

Morse nodded, trying to take in the information. The Inspector was obviously rattled by the incident, and, hearing how close he had come to dying, he himself was rather disturbed. “I’m sorry, sir, I... I didn’t mean to...” He stumbled over the apology, unsure as to what, exactly, he was sorry for, but Thursday held up a hand to stop him.

“Don’t worry, lad. You’ve nothing to be sorry for. Just try to stick around.” He smiled affectionately at the younger man. “This world would be a much less interesting place without you.”


End file.
